Fiction

An ordinary boy named Bruce Austen always walked to school on Tree lane. Bruce and his friends think it is the spooky, sketchy street of the whole town. Old houses scattered all on this lane. You never want to be caught on this street at night.

As I step outside into the bitter, crisp climate of Vermont,  a brush of wind hits my face and washes me into a big dream. The dream that I am on the beach. Hearing the waves crash, seeing children running around.

I ran into the clearing, the golden sunlight near blinded me, but I had no time to appreciate its beauty, the ogre's roars and tromping footsteps were barely behind me.

 “Go outside, get some fresh air.” she told me. “I’ll make you some lemonade.” I slowly loped over to the door. My dry hands gripped the cold handle and pulled. It was stuck.

A Liar’s Love Story
By Daniel Viorica

 

It was a wet day in February, when I was delivering the weekly paper to my neighborhood. I trudged up to my fourth house of the day, already wiped out. The mailbox read, "6 Whipperling".

Sitting in the same classroom for the fourth time this week. What could be more boring? Today is a fascinating lecture on who knows what.

Presidents don’t often text one another but this was one of those rare times that they do. Two Presidents of two different countries were texting each other one day when an unnoticed auto correct almost started World War 3.

I stood at the edge of the cliff looking down at him. I stared at him for a moment until it became uncomfortable and then looked away. We both knew what we had to do. It was the only option we had. The only one that would work. 

verbal

1: Wait, have you finished writing your piece yet? The tournament’s in like… now! And you haven’t checked in at all. I know you’ve been busy, but still…
2: Why, of course I’ve finished my piece. I give my art the time it deserves.

January 17, 2020
Luna, The Unicorn